Fuck It

I wrote this poem, with tears in my eyes, for the words are real and raw. I’ve always struggled to believe in myself and especially my writing. But it seems I’ve turned a point in my life now and there’s no going back. I’m realising that I can write. And am going to, no matter what. So ‘fuck it’ can be my mantra. Because I’m moving out of my comfy home and into the wild 😜

Thanks to my dear friend Cassie for the mantra 💗

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Poetry by Amanda Eifert

” The Writings On The Wall Reveal You”

 

——
Am I real?
When you look at me,
Do you see me for me?
Do you care what you see?
I’ve only questions,
While you play your cards close.
I’m not going to cheat,
Peer at your hand because —
I’m afraid what I’ll see.
Such truths, I don’t want to gaze upon —
Unfaithfulness,
Only physicality, sexuality;
No emotion or affection,
No conversation in person,
No Voice stroking voice.
—–
Hands speak with our words,
Eyes glint and reveal,
Secrets you’d rather hide,
With sunglasses.
Staring at your hand,
Trying to beat my cards.
Poker face silent, emotionless;
All bets are off.
Time to show me your cards,
What the river dealt you —
Matters not; but for now,
Play how you like.
Fold if you’re scared,
Of falling into deep,
Of feeling emotion.
Your heart picking-up,
Thumping a beat.
——
But, perhaps, I’m a woman for fodder,
For a lonely night at home.
Perhaps, I’m not pretty enough,
Not thin enough for you.
Maybe, you know I’ll ask questions?
Questions you have trouble answering.
Maybe, you know —
I’ll turn the wanderer in your soul home,
And welcome you in my arms.
Maybe you’re not ready,
Perhaps, your only an ass.
A nice way of saying,
Other words I want to shout.
Perhaps, I’m only a date —
And one night.
Is this how you treat women?
I’m too strong for your tricks.
——-
You may forget my face,
My name, my body.
You may let me do the walk of shame,
Thinking I’m fooled by you,
The man I liked all along;
You may believe —
Finally, you wore me down.
And now I’m flattened,
Nothing left to sculpt,
Nothing left to shatter.
Smithereens, glass embedded.
You may have led me astray,
Made me consider:
I no longer think,
Some guys are good,
And some guys do care.
——
But when I chose you,
Maybe I didn’t realize,
I was choosing all wrong.
Maybe, I should’ve gazed above me —
Seen the ‘writings on the wall.’
Seen the woman in her glory,
Waiting for her own life,
On wings to rise and fly;
From your lies and tricks;
You didn’t shatter me,
I saw all the writings,
Every word on that damn wall,
I know all your horrific secrets;
And I read them all.

 

“The Darkest Faeries”

——
The wings of a faerie, a delicate lace.
Transparent and glowing with,
Each faeries myriad colour choice.
You can see their wings flash,
When the sun begins to set;
When echoes of the rainbow,
Give one the illusion of colours bold.
But it’s the faeries who are —
As beautiful as they’re deadly,
Luring children to their faerie lands.
Turning your infants to faeries,
To live many ages;
To play wicked games, faeries play.
—-
They’ve no offspring so they steal,
A babe fed; left in their crib.
Mothers are distraught,
Be not surprised; it’s what faeries do.
You’ve heard the tales and watched,
As your mother, and her mother before her.
Still you cry and sob;
Picking-up your biggest kitchen knife.
Faeries are terrible beings,
We read false truth about,
They don’t actually want to help.
They’re evil when alive too long.
——-
Faeries so tiny,
Keep their race alive.
Promptly, wave their hands;
The wisps of their garments,
Sleeves like streamers trailing long.
Chanting magic ancestors taught,
They curse your darlings with bright wings.
And turn you and you husband away,
Searching for,
Your their stolen little ones.
Though your broken-hearted mother,
You keep up your fight.
You want your children to grow,
Not become an evil faerie;
Live a Millennium to burn.
——-
Faeries lead astray those,
Who try to capture them.
You who yearn for your babes,
To get your children home.
As faeries, your darlings grow in the blink of an eye;
Become adult faeries in days,
Not knowing they were humans young,
Merely, days ago.
——
Mother’s sorely missing kids,
Are wandering the forest for —
Where ancient faeries hide.
Faeries lie to stolen babes,
Say they were unwanted,
So the faeries gave them home.
And rainbow wings to one day,
Catch the eye of yet more babes.
Lost before a parent sees,
A child stolen gone.
——
Faeries change your young,
Dawning them with gossamer wings,
Knowledge of mischief and celebration.
A faeries life is of none-stop festivity,
With little meaning;
And no knowledge do faeries posses,
But the knowledge to take;
Those you hold so dear–
It’s why you burn their wings,
In the candle lit at night;
So, they will never curse your home,
And bring you a mother’s tears,
——
Why you learned to take your knife,
And kill the old faeries weird,
To end their malicious games.
Take back your children,
Undo the magic faeries formed.
You’ll burn and stab their wings all night,
Until your children,
And your neighbour’s young,
Are finally, safe at home.
So the faeries fade away.
Die out with no offspring,
Because of you;
Your child lives.
And never will you cry again,
From a fairy interfering.
You, most feisty mother,
For your perseverance, you have won.

Shadorma: “Women War Not Alone”

—–
Such times as,
The ones she lives through.
She conforms,
Yet wants more.
Sees hurt, it perpetuates;
Never healing whole.
—-
Self-harm and —
Hate common, if she–
Keeps hurting;
Harms others–
Hate with false judgement, it wins.
Woman, think thoughtfully.
—–
End the pain,
Close the doors so she,
Locks terror,
Out in cold.
An unforgiving night, reminds —
Her, fight gently.
—–

Keep working;
I know her battle,
It’s as old,
As the earth.
Men and women must fight for,
Prosperity.
—–
If only,
For a moment’s time,
Pax, and rest.
She is wise,
For seeing tomorrow’s pain;
Unburdens those lame.
——-
Light in the,
Darkness, shines, provides —
Glimmer of,
Hope, assured —
Fighting, with her words and sword;
Hoping for happiness.
——
Good prevails.
Light’s glow permanent.
Good’s older.
She drinks wine;
Thinking of mornings, sunrise —
Reminds her she’s loved.
—–
Leaves on tree,
Dusting her path yet,
Leaves mark the —
Passing of,
Seasons; each one she shines light,
Earth keeps turning while —
—–
She worries,
Weeping in bad times,
She doesn’t
Forget what,
Was fought for at heavy cost,
She lives; others fought —
——
For her now.
Because in their time,
They had few —
Rights at all.
Doing wife’s duty despite,
Desire for freedom — rights.
——
She looks for,
Light in the tunnel,
At the end–
Of the war.
She fights not alone; she holds —
Strength in her faith bold.
——
For her God,
Never gives up, for —
Women so —
Precious; God–
Created Man and her equals.
Partners; she’s not less.
——-
Complement,
She smiles because she —
Knows inner —
Completeness.
Remembers God’s son best knows,
Inequality.

Biography:

Amanda is a writer, blogger, and student in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. She has a BA in English Literature, a certificate in Residential Design, and is pursuing an online MFA at UBC in May 2017. She loves being creative and imaginative in her writing. She enjoys drawing and acrylic painting, dogs, hanging with her friends and family, Netflix, scrapbooking, and yoga. Amanda blogs at: www.mandibelle16.wordpress.com.

THANK YOU, YOU AMAZING PEOPLE!

This gallery contains 4 photos.

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Share A Poem On Ink and Quill

Share a link here of your favourite poem/s, which you have written or a poem written by a fellow poet. Or both! A poem/s which may have moved you, or are close to your heart. A poem, you thought about, long after you finished reading it. I will repost all links. As you … Continue reading

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Originally posted on Dream Big, Dream Often:
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Guest Poet On Ink & Quill: Laura. A. Lord

laura a

It is with great pleasure, I introduce you to Ink and Quill’s feature guest, Laura. A. Lord. Laura is a very talented poet and I’ve really enjoyed finding out more about her. Her poetry is incredible, edgy and original. Please, follow the link to check out more of her wonderful writing.

NAME: Laura A. Lord
COUNTRY: United States
AGE: 30

Please tell us a little about yourself:
I’m 30 years old and live on the Eastern Shore of Maryland with my husband and three children. I have been writing since I was a teenager, but didn’t start publishing my work until my mid-twenties. I have published six collections of poetry and vignettes and one children’s book.

‘Poetry is by far my favorite form to write and what I spend most of my time on.’

 

In fact, my newest collection set to be released this summer, I Am, in entirely poetry. I’m also an editor for Birth Without Fear and The Reverie Journal (the latter of which is a poetry magazine). You can find out more about my work on my blog,  Laura A Lord

When did you first start writing?
I started writing poetry as a teenager…Really bad, emo poetry. In fact, I have a huge binder full of the poems I wrote back then. I keep it effectively hidden in the hopes that no one will ever be subjected to the horrors inside there.

What does poetry mean to you?
Poetry is memories’ music. I am rarely ever able to write about something that is currently happening in my life, but after some time has gone by I am able to reflect on those memories.

‘I think that is what is most important to me about poetry – the ability to be able to freeze those feelings, emotions, and images in something like a poem.’

 

What might inspire you to write a poem? How does a poem begin for you, with an idea, a form or an image?
I tend to choose a theme. I think of a specific time in my life or emotion and try to work from that. I also enjoy wordle prompts. I have had great success with those and it is always fun to be challenged to use words you might not have ever chosen yourself.

Which writers/poets inspire and influence your own writing?
Sylvia Plath and Raymond Carver are two of my absolute favorites. I could, and have, read and reread their works again and again for inspiration.

Has your idea of what poetry is changed since you began writing poems?
Certainly. I used to think that poetry had to rhyme and that it needed a dark undertone. I am thankful to keep those hidden in the binder and to have learned to evolve my writing. I rarely rhyme these days, but I think the dark undertone lingers.

Tell us about your writing process: Pen and paper, computer, notes?
I have terrible carpal tunnel, so pen and paper is almost always out for me. I do keep a notebook in my bag and in my car, just in case, but I tend to use the notebook on my phone to jot down ideas. I write everything exclusively on my desktop, though.

Please share your favourite piece/s with us and a brief description of the inspiration behind it:
These three poems are from my upcoming book, I Am. The collection focuses on a woman’s view of herself at different points in her life. “Not for Keeps,” for instance, revolves around how I saw myself after learning of my (now ex) boyfriend’s infidelity, while “Brood Mare” stems from the drastic changes I saw in my body after the birth of my last son. “Skeleton Dance” formed a sort-of promise for me, in my effort to be as honest as possible throughout the book, and how it felt to open up so much about my own self-image.

laura

Not for Keeps

I’ve been nursing this blow up
like you’ve nursed that watery beer.
I wanted it big
and loud
and bright –
an explosion of color
in the harsh tones of a Las Vegas wedding.

I wanted my pain to hurt your eyes,
make you blink back a few tears.
I look better a bit hazy.
My angry face is heavily lined –
a child’s drawing,
all thick crayon swipes
and blurred edges.

I wanted my rage to be palpable –
a pulpy glob of orange juice in your mouth
after brushing your teeth.
I wanted you to roll me around on your tongue for a moment.
I wanted you to spit me out.

I’m no good for the long haul.
I’m not for keeps.

I break up like a wave crash,
a grenade with extra shrapnel on the side.
I can make a soap opera look like reality TV.

So come here, baby.
Let me lurk there at the back of your throat,
a taste you can’t get rid of.
I’m the kind of memory that gets closed up in some shoe box
under the bed.
I want to dine on the dust mites there and
listen to all the moments you whisper into her hair.
I want my claws so deep in your back
you still feel them when you’re fucking her.
I want my name engraved in your throat,
your voice box to massage every syllable as it slides
between your gritted teeth,
riding the wake your hips have made.
I want her to hate the plague marks I’ve left behind in you.

I’m such a needy little thing.

Brood Mare

I am a brood mare
with empty feed sack tits.
I’ve lost all sensitivity and
I’m emotionally bloated.

I’m an angry red slash –
The Joker’s mouth,
right above lips that have
stretched open so wide to speak
that they have split themselves sideways.
I’ve been stitched up,
stitched tight, and
I’m still loose.

I’m a pair of crow’s eyes at the corner
of a red-faced, wailing baby’s eyes.

I am lanolin-caked nipples –
I’m just trying to make the pain bearable.

I’m, “My God, I want you,” and
“Don’t touch me. I’m fat.”

I’m a hormonal, demolition derby car,
with no roll cage.
There’s no height requirement for this ride.
I’ve got an ass for days and nights,
sunsets and rises, and
rises,
like high rise to tuck in,
hold back,
control top.
I’m a peep-toe shoe
with thigh high stockings,
in a terry-cloth bathrobe.

I’m fuck-me-in-the-dark beautiful and
a saunter while I walk through the produce aisle.

I have nursed this image
until the well ran dry and
the keloids rose like mountain ranges
through a bush so neglected
it’s become a fanatic feminist icon,
but you’re still banging my crown against the headboard.
So I’m either that kind of desirable
or I’ve got a concussion.

Either way, I was never meant to be a princess.
I was meant to be a brood mare
with empty feed sack tits.

Skeleton Dance

I am ready to spill my skeletons,
open the door to the proverbial closet
and watch them perform an irreverent
skitter-dance across our bedroom carpet.
They will two-step in the moonlight
shining in jagged strips through the
wire screen against our window pane.
They will sing a false swan song
with lipless mouths and bones that
rattle as change in your pockets.
They will twist up on one another,
like a bow around a present,
and I’m giving you this gift,
because it is no longer possible
to keep them in my head.
I am dragging them out from under
the piles of old neglected things
that hinder our ability to speak freely
and humiliate what is left of our love.
I am giving you faceless truths
and praying that the melody of our past
is enough to string us back together.

 

Would you like a free copy of Laura’s book, Rumble Strip?

Sign up to her mailing list here

 

 

Thank You Darlings!

Feeling a little emotional, looking back to when I started my blog, Ink and Quill last March.

Which has reached over 670 followers!

So much has changed. I have changed, grown, become. Writing has turned from dream, a love, a hobby, into a passion, a need, a career.

I believe my confidence and self esteem in my writing abilities is accredited to starting my blog. The support and friendships I have made are incredible. I have learnt to push myself out of my comfort zone and most importantly to believe in ME!

I will soon publish my first poetry book, Ink and Quill Poetry. My plans after this, are to finish and publish my current work in progress. A fantasy/sci fi genre, young adult novel. Not exactly sure where this story idea came from, but I’m following it whole-heartedly, to see where I end up.

Whilst working, two days a week at a Kindergarten, being a full time mum, writing poetry and novels, running Ink and Quill, and studying at university, I’m busy but loving it!

Love Jen

xxx

 

Guest Poet On Ink & Quill: Antony Ros

It is with great pleasure, I would like to introduce my next feature guest, Poet Antony Ros, from Perso In Poesia. I have been following Antony’s work for some time now, and his words blow me away. He writes with … Continue reading

Share A Poetry On Ink & Quill 

Wow! What a wonderful response I received from my Share a Poem link. 

It is wonderful to connect poets around the world and read your work. 

Thank you to everyone who has participated so far. The thread is still open, to share your work. Please leave your links here Share a poem on Ink and Quill

Also, if I have missed anyone who left a link already. Please let me know. If I did, it was by accident. Due to the large response. I may have missed one. 

Thanks Jen xxx